


Detangling

by dorwinionwhining



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Family, Fluff and Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-16 02:37:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19308928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorwinionwhining/pseuds/dorwinionwhining
Summary: Hearts don’t balance like scales, but nevertheless, how many small acts of kindness does it take to outweigh one act of terrible wickedness? Or: Elrond gets sap in his hair, and Maglor sings him a song.





	Detangling

**Author's Note:**

> I keep writing about these characters without feeling like I've got their relationship quite right. The mix of feelings is clear in my head but hard to put into words. Anyway, guess that means I just have to keep trying and hope you enjoy my efforts along the way. I'd really appreciate any kudos or comments you want to give me. The encouragement really helps. But regardless, thank you for reading!

"Turn around," Maglor orders, and Elrond makes to protest, but Maglor cuts him off before he can do more than open his mouth. "No, Elrond."

Elrond shuts his mouth and turns, a flush rising to his cheeks.

Maglor picks out the offending tangle of sap encrusted hair from Elrond’s unruly locks and examines it. "You’ve really made a mess of things," he says, sounding warm and fond in a way that makes Elrond’s neck itch. He fidgets. It reminds him too much of his mother, and he hates it, because a part of him wants nothing more than to relax and accept the affection.

"Just get it over with," he mutters.

Maglor hums. He dips his fingers into the little dish of oil he’d set out and begins to work them into the tangle. He continues to hum, and the soft melody of it is too much. Elrond relaxes, shoulders slumping and mind wandering to peaceful thoughts.

Once the oil is completely worked into Elrond’s hair, Maglor wipes his fingers clean and tells him, "You’ll have to sit for a little while and let that do its magic."

"Fine," Elrond concedes, settling down onto the soft rug at the foot of Maglor’s bed. He hesitates, not wanting to admit to liking it, and then asks, "What was that song?"

"One of my own," Maglor says, ignoring Elrond’s awkwardness. "I wrote it long ago, in Valinor. It was popular in the summer, when the light of Laurelin was brightest."

Elrond tries to imagine it, a land so beautiful it outshone all of Beleriand, lit by trees of whom the sun and moon are but pale reflections. It never seems real, though, like it could have really existed.

He hesitates again. "Could you sing it properly?"

Maglor’s eyes go briefly dim and pensive, flickering away from Elrond and across the room. But then he rallies, and agrees. "Very well," he says.

His voice fills the small room in an instant. The song is all lightness and warmth, summer flowers and rolling hills and deep canyons filled with flowers in a hundred different hues. Elrond sees it, and for a moment he believes in Valinor-that-was, beautiful beyond beautiful.

Then the images fade, and the song is just a song.

He curls his knees up to his chest and tucks his chin between them, continuing to listen and unsure of what to feel.

Maglor finishes the song and then coaxes Elrond back to his feet.

"I’ll pick out the sap and detangle your hair, and then you need to go wash the oil out," he tells him, already reaching for a cloth and comb.

Elrond stands still, less from obedience and more because he’s still stuck turning over the emotions roiling inside his head. It’s frustrating, how complicated everything is.

"Next time this happens, tell someone immediately, and it will be less work to fix," Maglor says.

He wants to protest there being a next time, but he already knows adults never believe things like that from children. Instead, he mutters, "Fine."

"You’re lucky we didn’t have to cut it out," Maglor continues blithely.

"Maybe I should cut all of it," Elrond replies churlishly, clinging to the comfort of his stubbornness to hide how off kilter he feels. "Then it won’t happen again."

Maglor tugs one of his curls, laughing. "That’s up to you, but again, please tell someone and have them do it for you. It would be just my luck if you cut your neck instead."

Elrond rolls his eyes. "Are you done?"

"Yes," Maglor says, giving Elrond’s hair one last once over with the comb. "Go wash."

Elrond bolts, but his steps slow as he reaches the staircase and begins to descend. There’s a part of him that’s so curious it burns, wanting nothing more than to run back and ask Maglor a dozen more questions, to fall into the love and guidance Maglor’s so set on offering him. His anger, which he’s carried with him and clung to for so long now, is beginning to feel like a sea cliff, worn down little by little as the waves crash against it.

He frowns, lips pushing out into a pout.

He doesn’t want his anger to wear away completely, but at the same time, deep inside, he yearns. There is an emptiness in his heart that his family’s love used to fill, and Elros alone isn’t enough to keep it from aching.

It aches now, but Elrond stubbornly ignores it. Maybe having to wash his hair isn’t such a bad thing. Maybe if he dunks his head underwater long enough he’ll drown out some of his thoughts.

That would make for a nice change.


End file.
